REVEREND AND DEARLY BELOVED, THOU AND THY PEOPLE,--We are so much indebted to you all for our four pleasant days in the great city, that I think we ought to write a letter to you. We feel as if we had come out of the great waters; the currents of city life run so strong, that it seems to us as if we had been at sea; so many tall galleys are there, and such mighty freights are upon the waves, and the captains and the very sailors are so thoroughly alive, that--that--how shall I end the sentence? Why, thus, if you please,--that it seems to me as if I ought to be there six months of the year, and that somebody ought to want me to do something that would bring me there. But somebody,--who is that?

Why, n.o.body. You can't see him; you can't find him; Micawber never caught him, though he was hunting for him all his life,--always hoped the creature would turn up, though he never did.

Well, I 'm content. I am more, I am thankful. I have had, all my life, the greatest blessing of life,--leave to work on the highest themes and tasks, and I am not turned out, at the end, on to the bare common of the world, to starve. I have a family, priceless to me. I have many dear and good friends, and above all I have learned to draw nigh to a Friendship which embraces the universe in its love and care, if one may speak so of That which is almost too awful for mortal word. . . .

But leaving myself, and turning to you,--what a monstrous person you are! a prodigy of labor, and a prodigy in some other ways that I could point out. I always thought that the elastic spring in your nature was [270] one of the finest I ever knew, but I did not know that it was quite so strong. You, too, know of a faith that can remove mountains.

The Great Fair is one mountain. I hope you will get the "raffles"

question amicably settled. There is the same tempest in the Sheffield teapot; for we have a fair on the 22d, and they have determined here that they won't have raffles.

What made you think that I "dread public prayers "? Did I say anything to you about it? If I did, I should not have used exactly the word "dread." The truth is, that state of the mind which is commonly called prayer becomes more and more easy, or at least inevitable to me; but the action has become so stupendous and awful to me, that I more and more desire the privacy in it of my own thoughts. "Prayers,"-"saying one's prayers," grows distasteful to me, and a Liturgy is less and less satisfying. Communion is the word I like better.

But I have touched too large a theme. With our love to E. and your lovely children, let me be,

Always your friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.

SHEFFIELD, Feb. 22, 1864.

DEAR FRIEND,--You are not well; I know you are not, or you would have written to me; and indeed they told me so when I was in New York the other day. I wrote you a good (?) long letter about New Year's, which "the human race running upon our errands" (as Carlyle says) has delivered to you, unless in the confusion of these war times it has let said letter drop out of [271]its pocket. That many-membered body, according to this account of it, has a good deal to do with us; and, do you know, I find great help by merging myself in the human race. It has taken a vast deal of worry to wash and brush it into neatness, and to train it to order, virtue, and sanct.i.ty; why should I not have my share in the worry and weariness and trouble? Many have been sick and suffering,--all mankind more or less; why should not I be? All the human generations have pa.s.sed away from the world; Walter Scott died; Prescott died; Charles Dewey, of Indiana, died; E. S. has died; who am I, that I should ask to remain?

E.'s pa.s.sing away was very grand and n.o.ble,--so cheerful, so natural,--so full of intelligence and fuller of trust,--this earthly land to her but a part of the Great Country that lies beyond. She left such an impression upon her family and friends, that they hardly yet mourn her loss as they will; they feel as if she were still of them and with them. . . .

All my people love you, as does

Your friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.

SHEFFIELD, May 1, 1864.

THANK your magnificence! Perhaps I ought to say your misericordia, for Charles says you wrote to him that you knew I should n't have those grapes unless you sent them to me. And I am afraid it's true; for I have had such poor success in my poor grape-culture, that I had about given up in despair.

[272] Nonetheless, I have had these set out, according to the best of my judgment, in the best place I could find in the open garden, and I will have a trellis or something for them to run upon; and then they may do as they have a mind to.

I have delayed to acknowledge the receipt of the grape-roots,--Charles is n't to blame, I told him I would write,--because I waited for the cider to come, that wife and I might overwhelm you with a joint letter of thanks, laudation, and praise. But I can wait no longer. That is, the cider does n't come, and I begin to think it is a myth. Poets, you know, deal in such. They imagine, they idealize, nay, it is said they create; and if we were poets, I suppose we should before now have as good as drank some of that Long Island champagne. Speaking of poets reminds me that I did n't tell you how charmed I was with those translations from the Odyssey; the blank verse is so simple, clear, and exquisite, so I think.

To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.

SHEFFIELD, May 5, 1864.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--Dear B. did you no wrong, and me much right, in giving me to read a letter of yours to her, written more than a month ago, which impressed me more and did me more good than any letter I have read this long time. It was that in which you spoke of Mr. Choate. It was evidently written with effort and with interruptions,--it was not like your finished, though unstudied letters, of which I have in my garner a goodly sheaf; but oh! my friend, take me into your [273] realm, your frame of mind, your company, wherever it shall be. The silent tide is bearing us on. May it never part, but temporarily, my humble craft from your lovely sail, which seems to gather all things sweet and balmy-affections, friendships, kindnesses, touches and traits of humanity, hues and fragrances of nature, blessings of providence and beat.i.tudes of life--into its perfumed bosom.

You will think I have taken something from Choate. What a strange, Oriental, enchanted style he has! What gleams of far-off ideas, flashes from the sky, essences from Arabia, seem unconsciously to drop into it!

I have been reading him, in consequence of what you wrote. It is strange that with all his seeking for perfection in this kind he did not succeed better. But it would seem that his affluent and mysterious genius could not be brought to walk in the regular paces. He was certainly a very extraordinary person. I understand better his generosity, candor, amiableness, playfulness. I understand what you mean by the resemblance between him and your brother Charles. With constant love of us all,

Yours ever,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To Mrs. David Lane.

SHEFFIELD, Sept. 3, 1864.

DEAR FRIEND,--. . . Mrs. __ reported you very much occupied with doc.u.ments, papers, letters, and what not, on matters connected with the Sanitary. I should like to have you recognize that there are other people who need to be healed and helped besides soldiers; and that there are other interests beside public ones to be looked after. Are not all interests individual interests in [274] the "last a.n.a.lysis," as the philosophers say? But I am afraid you don't believe in a.n.a.lysis at all.

Generality, combination, is everything with you. One part of the human race is rolled up into a great bundle of sickness, wounds, and misery; and the other is nothing but a benevolent blanket to be wrapped round it. And if any one thread--videlicet I--should claim to have any separate existence or any little tender feeling by itself, immediately the manager of the Great Sanitary Fair says, "Hush! lie down! you are nothing but a part of the blanket." But a truce to nonsense. Since writing the foregoing, the news has come from Atlanta. Oh! if Grant could do the same thing to Lee's army, not only would the Rebellion be broken, but the Copperhead party would be scattered to the winds! Do you read anything this summer but reports from Borrioboola Gha? The best book I have read--Ticknor's "Prescott," Alger's "Future Life," Furness's "Veil Partly Lifted," etc., notwithstanding--is De Tocqueville's "Ancient Regime and the Revolution."

Your old friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To the Same.

Nov. 9, 1864.

CHARMING! I will be as bad as I can. Talk about being "useful to the world"! If the people that do the most good, or get it to be clone,--same thing,--are to be sought for, are n't they the wicked ones?

Where had been the philanthropists, heroes, martyrs, but for them? [275]

Where had been Clark, and Wilberforce, but for the slave-catchers? Where Howard, but for cruel sailors? Where Brace, but for naughty boys? Where our n.o.ble President of the Sanitary, but for the wicked Rebels? And how should I ever have known that Mrs. Lane was capable of such a fine and eloquent indignation, if, instead of being a bad boy, "neglecting the opportunities" thrown in my way, I had been just a good sort of middle-aged man, "in the prime of life," doing as I ought? Really, there ought to be a society got up to make bad people,--they are so useful!

I heard a man say of Bellows, the other day in the cars, "He is a n.o.ble man!" And it was an Orthodox, formerly a member and elder of Dr. Spring's church. And what do you think he said to me? "Don't you remember me?"--"No."--"Don't you remember when you were a young man, in Dodge Sayre's bookstore, that Jasper Corning and I set up a Sunday-school for colored people in Henry Street, and that you taught in it for several months? And a good teacher you were, too." Not a bit of it. Oh, dear me! I hope there are some other good things which I have done in the world that I don't remember. "A grand sermon," you heard last Sunday, hey? And then went to the "Century" Rooms, to see the decorations of the Bryant Festival! It seems to me that was rather a queer thing to do, after sermon! You will have to write a letter to me immediately, to relieve my anxieties about your religious education.

Was the text, "And they rose up early on the morrow and offered burnt sacrifices and brought peace offerings; and the people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play "? See the same, Exodus x.x.xii. 6.

[276] There! I am not in deep waters, you see, but skimming on the surface, except when I subscribe myself your abused, scolded, but

Faithful friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

My wife and people send their love and dire indignation to you.

To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.

SHEFFIELD, Dec. 12, 1864.

. . . It is not pleasant to think upon death. It would not be pleasant to any company of friends to think that the hour for parting was near.

Death is a solemn and painful dispensation. I will have no hallucination about it. I "wait the great teacher, Death." I do not welcome it. It is a solemn change. It is a dread change to natures like ours. I do not believe that the Great Disposer meant that we should approach it with a smile, with an air of triumph,--with any other than feelings of lowly submission and trust. I do not want to die. I never knew anybody that did, except when bitter pain or great and irremediable unhappiness made the release welcome. And yet, I would not remain forever in this world.

And thus, like the Apostle, "I am in a strait betwixt two." And I believe that it is better to depart; but it is a kind of reluctant conclusion. It may be even cheerful; but it does not make it easy for me to tear myself from all the blessed ties of life. I submit to G.o.d's awful will; but it is with a struggle of emotions, that is itself painful and trying,--that tasks all the fort.i.tude and faith of which I am capable. [277] Will you tell me that our Christian masters and martyrs spoke of a "victory" over death? Yes, but is victory all joy?

Ah, what a painful thing is every victory of our arms in these b.l.o.o.d.y battles, though we desire it! Do you feel that I am not writing to you in the high Christian strain? Perhaps not. But I confess I am accustomed to bring all that is taught me--all that is said in exceptional circ.u.mstances like those of the apostles-into some adjustment with a natural, necessary, and universal experience. Besides, Jesus himself did not approach death with a song of triumph upon his lips. What a union, in him, of sorrow and trust! No defying of pain, no boasting of calmness or strength, no braving of martyrdom,--not half so fine and grand, to a worldly and superficial view, as many a martyr's death! But oh, what a blending in him of everything that makes perfection,--of pain and patience, of trial and trust! But I am writing too long a letter for you to read. . . . K. just came into my study, and says, "Do give my love."

I answer, "I give all our love always." So I do now; and with the kindest regards to all around you, I am, as ever,

Most affectionately your friend,

ORVILLE DEWEY.

To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.

SHEFFIELD, Jan. 7, 1865.